Hiding Among the Dead by Chris Bauer

Author:Chris Bauer [Bauer, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn River Publishing
Published: 2019-05-21T16:00:00+00:00

22

Philo paid for breakfast, brought it to the Blessid Trauma garage: bagels, a pork roll sandwich for Hank, coffees, and juice for Patrick. He pulled apart the bag with the bagels and let them tumble onto the break table in the office. After he dropped into a chair, he studied Patrick, busy with his OJ carton. Patrick sipped his juice, looked over the straw at Philo. “Sir? Something wrong, sir?”

“What would you say…” Philo started then hesitated. He searched for the right words, sheepish about having been less than aware of—blind to—this dark young man whose thick, tan skin had deserved more than a cursory pronouncement regarding his perceived ethnicity from a sandwich guy at a restaurant.

“What I mean is, Patrick, you, ah, you’ve got a guardian angel out there who helped me figure something out about you.”

Philo locked eyes with Hank, grabbed a bagel, tore off a chunk. He began with an apology, his mouth full. “I tried calling the both of you last night but neither of you answered. So let me start by asking you, Hank, did you get Patrick’s DNA test results back yet?”

“Nope. A few more weeks,” Hank said, his look puzzled. “You’re killing us here, Philo. Let’s have it. What’s going on?”

“When the DNA results come back,” Philo said, unblinking, “they will show that Patrick’s not an Eskimo.”

“Aleut, sir, not Eskimo,” Patrick said.

“Fine, right, whatever, Patrick, but you’re neither. The results will show you’re Hawaiian.”

Patrick sat mesmerized. Hank showed his best what the fuck expression. “That’s not even an ethnicity, Philo. Hawaiians are Polynesians. You know these results how?”

“I haven’t seen them, I just know what they’re going to show. Apparently some Philly mob person noticed it. And according to the cops, this Philly mob in particular is loaded with, odd as it sounds, Hawaiians.”

Patrick choked on his bagel and orange juice. “Really?” He left his seat, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “REALLY? I’m Hawaiian? I’m Hawaiian!”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Philo, c’mon, how does some mobster know this? What mobster? How—?”

“Hank, I have no idea. What I do know is some criminal type took an interest in him. A mob cleaner-fixer type. Someone like us, but working for the other side.”

Hank now learned about the message left on the sauna floor, and Philo explained the Philly police’s concern that this new mob presence was from Hawaii. “The message was left for us, Hank, about Patrick. Who knows why the interest. Maybe it’s a bad guy with a conscience, trying to do some good. Regardless, it’s someone who knows something.”

Patrick bounded around the room keying at his phone, doing internet searches. “Oahu. Maui. Kauai. Look at that. Volcanoes…”

“Still not buying it,” Hank said. “Patrick, calm down, we really don’t know much more than we already did.”

“…luaus, leis…”

Philo had been skeptical, too, he said, but then he’d pieced it together. “Patrick—relax, dude. Sit please. I have a question for you; something I asked you before. Answer it for me again.” He winked at Hank. “Your home state.

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